


Not-So-Silent Night

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Baker Patrick Stump, Detective Pete Wentz, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Mystery, but like you've never seen it before, instead of writing a normal christmas fic i'm giving you this, never say i didn't do anything for you, new year new me not really, what's christmas without some good old fashioned murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28463250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: The ten days between December 23rd and January 1st he was well within his rights to abandon all humanity for the sake of churning out order after order. Those ten days alone (plus a flurry of wedding season orders) kept SemiSweet Treats afloat, allowing Patrick and his crew the rest of the year to breathe.The point was, Patrick didn’t like being woken up at three am before such an important fucking time crunch.“The bakery is on fire,” Brendon said, and Patrick was up and out of bed quicker than anything had ever woken him before, including that one time his cat puked on his face.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Comments: 134
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlatinumAndPercocet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/gifts).



> i have been binge-watching bones because, well. you know. LIFE. and then Merry Little Peterick started and i was like "i'm gonna write a cute little bones inspired fic" and then i DIDN'T.
> 
> anyone wanna guess what episode i watched when i thought of this fic?
> 
> anyone wanna guess my favorite character? (PlatinumAndPercocet does NOT get to guess)
> 
> if anyone guesses both right, my gift to them will be me posting the second chapter on sunday (which is going to be update day, this is just a new year's eve treat)
> 
> alright let's go

“Oh my God, there had better be a good reason you are calling me right now,” Patrick said, by way of any normal greeting, like _hello_ or _good morning_. But it was currently three am the day before Christmas Eve, the day he traditionally had approximately one million rush orders to complete (he counted), so he figured bending the rules of politeness was acceptable. The ten days between December 23rd and January 1st he was well within his rights to abandon all humanity for the sake of churning out order after order. Those ten days alone (plus a flurry of wedding season orders) kept SemiSweet Treats afloat, allowing Patrick and his crew the rest of the year to breathe.

The point was, Patrick didn’t like being woken up at three am before such an important fucking time crunch.

“The bakery is on fire,” Brendon said, and Patrick was up and out of bed quicker than anything had ever woken him before, including that one time his cat puked on his face. He stumbled a little, feet trapped in the sheets, but made it upright, phone pressed against his ear as he blindly reached for clothes. He didn’t even know if what he was grabbing matched or anything, he was just grabbing things he hoped would cover the important bits from the cold and any indecent exposure laws.

“On fire?” he demanded. “The fuck do you mean, on fire? Why wasn’t I informed that my bakery is _on fire_?”

“You _are_ being informed,” Brendon said. Patrick could hear sirens in the background. “This phone call, that’s me informing you.”

“What the fuck _happened_?” Patrick hissed, banging his shin on his dresser but not really caring. “Bakeries do not spontaneously combust!”

“I don’t know,” Brendon said. “I assume the firefighters will tell us more--hey! _Hey!_ Give that back!”

“On fire is a bit of a stretch,” Spencer said, evidently having stolen the phone from Brendon, given the angry noises accompanying the sirens. “It’s not the whole building. One of the ovens was left on, evidently with something inside, and it caught fire. So basically, the kitchen.”

“Which is basically everything,” Patrick said testily. “No one leaves the ovens on. I do not leave the ovens on. You and Brendon certainly don’t leave the ovens on. No one else has access to the ovens.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer said. “But, uh, the cops pulled up. So you better get your ass down here.”

Patrick groaned and hung up, grabbing a pillow and screaming into it for about thirty seconds before shoving his feet into his boots and throwing on his coat.

Merry fucking Christmas.

\----

Brendon was anxiously shifting from foot to foot, hands shoved into his coat pockets, too-long pajama pants soaking up the snow where they hung out over his boots. Spencer was a stoic, silent statue next to him, texting rapidly on his phone, dressed slightly warmer than Brendon, but both of them had to have been rushed straight out of their bed and from their apartment. 

If the oven caught fire, the building fire alarm went off, which pushed them and the few others who lived above the bakery and art store out to evacuate. 

“Hey,” he said, glancing around. There was a bit of an audience, but the street was mostly filled with firetrucks and police cars--and, most disturbingly, a coroner’s van. 

“Spencer,” Patrick said slowly. “Why is there a coroner’s van here?”

“They found a body,” Spencer said tersely, not looking up from his phone. Patrick blinked. 

“They found a what,” he said.

“A body,” Spencer repeated, like this was a completely normal conversation they were having. “In the oven. Someone put a body in the oven. And turned it on.”

“Uh,” Patrick said. It felt like his brain was processing things at half speed. “On--on purpose?”

“I can’t imagine another reason someone would cook a human being,” Spencer said slowly, eyes flicking up from his phone to look at Patrick, then at SemiSweet.. “Heads up, the cops are gonna want to talk to you.”

“Did they already talk to you?” Patrick asked.

“Yeah,” Brendon said, speaking up for the first time. “Asked if we heard anything, saw anything. We didn’t, by the way. But it’s just us three with keys, so it had to be a break in.”

“To use our oven,” Patrick said. He was kind of stuck on the whole _dead body in the oven_ thing. He heard footsteps and looked up. 

It was a detective, or so Patrick assumed. He was dressed in nicer clothes than Patrick could afford, in an even more expensive coat, but his badge on his collar definitely identified him as someone to watch his words around--years of knowing Andy had _that_ beaten into him.. 

He was followed by a second probable detective, dressed just as sharply. They both had long hair pulled back into buns, and Patrick had the illogical and slightly inappropriate thought of _is this the uniform of the Chicago Police Department now_ before First Detective was speaking.

“Are you the owner?” he said, and Patrick cleared his throat. 

“That’s me,” he said. He still sounded shaken up. So much for cool professionalism. “Patrick Stump.”

“Detective Wentz, Chicago PD,” First Detective said, then gestured to Second Detective. “Detective Trohman. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“Sure,” Patrick said. He glanced at SemiSweet, which still had smoke rising from the charred half, and sighed shakily. “Uh, go ahead.”

“What time did you close up the bakery yesterday?” Detective Wentz asked, and Patrick blew out a breath and thought. 

“About--about eleven,” he said. “The bakery closes at nine, and we’re usually out by ten but we had to prep for Christmas Eve rush orders.”

“So what time would you normally have been in?”

“Five thirty, at the latest,” Patrick said. “But Spencer and Brendon would probably have unlocked and preheated for me before starting to assemble boxes and sort order forms.”

“Did you notice anything unusual this week?” Detective Trohman asked. “Anyone loitering or seeming overly interested in the bakery? Do you have any enemies?”

“I haven’t, but I don’t work front of shop,” Patrick said. “We have two staff exclusively out front. They don’t have kitchen access, just a refrigerator for display refills. But they would know if anything strange had been happening. Hayley Williams and Ryan Ross. I’ll get you their phone numbers.”

“Thanks,” Detective Wentz said. “Is that all your employees, then? Yourself, your two other bakers, and your two front of house staff?”

“We have a lawyer,” Patrick said. “Not retained, but if needed. I don’t know if that counts. Andy Hurley?”

“I know him,” Detective Trohman said. “Who else has keys, then? There aren’t any immediate signs of forced entry.”

“Just myself, Brendon, and Spencer,” Patrick said. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed on. “A few months ago, we changed the locks. People we no longer wanted affiliated with us had keys.”

“Care to elaborate?” Detective Wentz asked. It didn’t actually sound like a question, so Patrick nodded.

“My ex,” he said. “I bought him out of his share of the bakery because, to be honest, he was an asshole and I was going to break up with him. Andy did all the forms, so it was legal, and we went through arbitration and everything, but when he only got what he put in and not the amount SemiSweet had appreciated, he kind of went crazy.”

“He used his key and came in and destroyed everything,” Spencer said, obviously overhearing. “We had him on our security camera. We changed the locks immediately after that and doubled down on who got a key.”

“Your ex’s name?” Detective Wentz said in interest. 

“Bob,” Patrick said. “Bob Bryar.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy was sitting right next to him, scribbling aggressively on his notepad despite the fact that neither detective had entered what Patrick assumed to be the interrogation room yet. It was kind of a nice room to be an interrogation room, but when he said that to Andy, Andy muttered under his breath about cops and their tricks and keeping his mouth shut, so Patrick did. 
> 
> The table in front of him was a nice wood, not the metal coroner-esque thing that Patrick was used to seeing in TV shows. There was carpet on the ground and weirdly dated posters on the walls that distracted him just enough that he was a little taken aback by the time the door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands* time is fake but fanfiction is real

They gathered silently at Patrick’s apartment. Patrick made two quick, apologetic four-in-the-morning phone calls to both Hayley and Ryan, telling them the bakery caught fire and to expect a call from police, but nothing else. What else was he supposed to tell them? Merry Christmas?

By the time he was done with that, Spencer had put a full coffeepot in the middle of the kitchen table and collapsed into a chair. Brendon was in another, fidgeting with the bottom of his sweatshirt, and that left the only remaining seat for Patrick. 

“I might need something stronger than coffee,” Patrick said, pulling out the chair. Spencer fixed him with a look. 

“It’s not even five,” he says. “In the _morning_.”

“You remember what we just left, right?” Patrick asked, picking up his _I’m a bear in the mornings_ mug and pointing it accusingly at Spencer before dumping coffee into it aggressively. “You remember how we were all yanked from our beds in the middle of the night because the bakery caught fire because of--and I cannot stress this enough--the dead body shoved into one of our ovens?”

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” Brendon declared. 

“No, you’re not,” Spencer said. Brendon shot him a dirty look. “Look, it’s bad. It’s not ideal timing.”

“There’s ideal timing for this?” Brendon asked. Spencer ignored him. 

“But we just have to let the cops do their jobs,” Spencer finished firmly. 

“And then buy a new oven,” Patrick said. 

“Possibly all new ovens,” Brendon added. 

“And an exorcism,” Patrick said. 

“Could we please not turn this into more of a circus than it has to be?” Spencer said impatiently. “Could we keep our heads? I left word with Andy, so he’ll be aware as soon as possible. There’s not much else we can do.”

“Could we send a mass email?” Patrick asked. “‘Sorry, your order will be delayed due to the bakery being a homicide scene.’ That’ll drum up business.”

“We have 3,984 five star reviews on Yelp,” Brendon said. “Hopefully, that’ll float us.”

“My landlord doesn’t accept Yelp reviews for rent,” Patrick said. “Maybe if no one finds out that the victim was cooked to death it’ll be fine.”

“We don’t know that,” Spencer said. 

“Spencer, the body was burnt to a crisp in the oven,” Brendon said. “I feel pretty confident drawing that conclusion.”

“But we don’t know if they were _alive_ when they went in,” Spencer said. 

“You are splitting hairs that can’t be seen with a microscope,” Brendon said.

“I feel like I’m witnessing your foreplay,” Patrick cut in. “Let’s not turn the fact that my life’s business has been interrupted by a literal homicide into a sex game.”

“I wonder who it was,” Brendon said. “Maybe it was a mob hit. Hey, maybe they’ll make a movie about it!”

“Maybe then I can pay for my health insurance,” Patrick said, and reached for his phone as it began buzzing. It wasn’t a familiar number; just a Chicago area code, but he answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Mr. Stump?” the voice on the other end sounded familiar. Patrick’s tired brain tried to keep up and put the pieces together as they continued speaking. “It’s Detective Wentz with CPD Homicide, is now a good time?”

_It’s not even five in the morning_ the Spencer-in-his-head repeated, but Patrick did his best to ignore it.

“Uh, sure,” Patrick said, registering the voice with the face. Man bun and gorgeous eyes. Okay, maybe he shouldn’t be finding the cop investigating the homicide scene in his bakery hot. Patrick may have sleep deprivation. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, but sat up a little straighter. “Have you gotten ahold of my other employees?”

“Not yet,” Detective Wentz said. “I just wanted to call and let you know we’ve ID’d the victim in your shop. I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to come down to the station and answer some more questions.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, frowning. “No problem. Why? Who was it?”

“Dental records were a match to your ex boyfriend, Bob Bryar,” Detective Wentz said. It was all Patrick could do to not pass out in shock right then and there. 

\----

Andy was sitting right next to him, scribbling aggressively on his notepad despite the fact that neither detective had entered what Patrick assumed to be the interrogation room yet. It was kind of a nice room to be an interrogation room, but when he said that to Andy, Andy muttered under his breath about cops and their tricks and keeping his mouth shut, so Patrick did. 

The table in front of him was a nice wood, not the metal coroner-esque thing that Patrick was used to seeing in TV shows. There was carpet on the ground and weirdly dated posters on the walls that distracted him just enough that he was a little taken aback by the time the door opened. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Detective Wentz said, and Patrick sat up a little more, acutely aware of the window to his left, where he assumed a large audience was watching what was going down. It made him nervous. “Counselor, welcome back.”

“Whatever,” Andy said, and Patrick choked a little on his own spit. Detective Wentz didn’t seem all that fazed. “Could we get on with this?”

“Sure,” Detective Wentz said mildly. “Mr. Stump, as I mentioned over the phone, the body we found in the oven at your bakery has been identified as Bob Bryar.”

“Using what technique?” Andy asked immediately.

“Dental records and DNA,” Detective Wentz said, like he expected the question, sliding a file across the table to Andy. “We were able to extract DNA from surviving bone tissue. Or something. I don’t have a degree in science.”

“Fascinating,” Andy said dryly.

“When was the last time you saw your ex-boyfriend?” Detective Wentz asked Patrick. 

“About three months ago,” Patrick said. “We served him with a lawsuit for the damages to the bakery.”

“He did not show up for court,” Andy added. “So we won by default, but we haven’t heard from him since.”

“He hasn’t come around the bakery?” Detective Wentz asked. 

“We just said we haven’t heard from him since,” Andy said testily.

“Andy,” Patrick said, pained. Detective Wentz huffed out a laugh. 

“I’m very familiar with the Counselor’s demeanor,” he said. “Do you know of anyone who would have a problem with Mr. Bryar?”

“Take a number,” Patrick suggested. “He had a gambling problem, so he probably owed money. He had a drug problem. He was a generally unpleasant person. The list goes on.”

“Anyone who had a problem with both of you?” Detective Wentz asked. “Given that your oven was used?”

“Jesus,” Patrick said, trying to think. “Not that I can think of right now? I didn’t really get along with his friends.”

“Maybe Patrick is being framed,” Andy said. Patrick whipped his head around to stare at Andy in alarm. 

“Am I a suspect?” he asked, voice going high pitched. Andy rolled his eyes, which was exactly zero help, so Patrick turned his gaze back to Detective Wentz instead. 

“I mean, technically,” he said, which was even less help. “But I have to admit that it seems pretty stupid to kill your ex and burn him in your own bakery, and you don’t strike me as very stupid, Mr. Stump.”

“Maybe that’s what Patrick wants you to think,” Andy said.

“You’re supposed to be helping me!” Patrick said, outraged. “This doesn’t sound like you helping me!”

“Just covering all angles,” Andy said, shrugging. Detective Wentz coughed into his fist, but it sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. 

“Alright,” Detective Wentz said. “Perhaps you could take a walk, Counselor?”

“My client needs me,” Andy said.

“I really don’t,” Patrick replied. 

“A walk, Mr. Hurley,” Detective Wentz repeated, and Andy huffed out a long suffering sigh and scooped up his legal pad and the file Wentz had given him before walking out of the room, leaving Patrick alone with the detective. They sat in silence for a moment before Detective Wentz sat forward. 

“Mr. Stump.”

“Yes,” Patrick said, still feeling slightly off-center. 

“I hate to ask this,” Wentz continued. “But I have to.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He felt a little bit like he was in an echo chamber, like maybe everything so far had been a dream. 

“Did you murder Bob Bryar?”

Patrick blinked. Wentz stared at him. Patrick stared back. Wentz’s gaze didn’t falter. 

Patrick realized Wentz was serious. 

“No,” Patrick said, as calmly as he could. “I didn’t.”

Detective Wentz sat back. Patrick couldn’t tell if he was satisfied with Patrick’s answer or not, and the tension in Patrick’s shoulders didn’t let up.

“Can you think of anyone else on your staff who would want to kill Mr. Bryar?” Wentz finally asked, after a silence that felt like years. 

“On my staff?” Patrick asked. Wentz nodded. Patrick bit his tongue, because the flippant answer was _obviously everyone_ and that didn’t seem like a great answer to give in an interrogation room at a police station after Bob was actually _found dead_. “No. None of them would kill someone. I’ve known them for years.”

“Okay,” Detective Wentz said, nodding, and Patrick tried to keep breathing. Wentz reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the table. “If you think of anything else, please call.”

Patrick picked the card up with hands that felt like they were made of lead. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Will do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think he’s gonna come out here and say _‘hey Patrick, nice to see you, I totally forgot to tell you that I’m dating Bob and I cooked him in the oven!’_?” Andy asked, and Patrick shot him a glare.
> 
> “Don’t get my hopes up,” he muttered. Andy scoffed. Patrick sighed, letting his hand drop. “Guess he’s not home. You think we should tell the detectives?”
> 
> “No, I think we should let them continue to look at you as suspects,” Andy said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at you expectantly*

“The body was Bob?” Brendon asked again. Patrick thought he was having a Groundhog Day experience. “And the cops thought _you_ killed him?”

“Detectives,” Spencer corrected.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Brendon said back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are detectives not a part of the police department now?”

“As adorable as this couple's argument is,” Andy said. “We should really figure out why Bob was murdered and shoved in your oven.”

“Do you think he was still alive when he was put in the oven?” Brendon asked, sounding fascinated.

“Great,” Patrick said. “Thanks for that image. The ghost of Bob Bryar, haunting my bakery for the rest of my life.”

“Do we really need to look far for a motive?” Spencer asked. “It was _Bob_. Also, isn’t this the detective’s job?”

“They detectives think it was one of you,” Andy said. “So we should probably come up with an alternate explanation. Or a cover up.”

“You seem remarkably chill with suggesting a cover up,” Brendon said. “You’re our lawyer.”

“I’m your friend first,” Andy said. “And if one of you _did_ murder Bob, you did a great service to society.”

“How did you pass the bar exam?” Patrick asked. 

“Never mind that,” Andy said. “Who was in Bob’s life?”

“I made a point to not know that,” Patrick said, at the same time Brendon said: “He had a new boyfriend.”

Three sets of eyes turned to look at him and he threw up his hands. 

“What?” he asked defensively. “I like gossip.”

“Thanks for becoming the number one suspect,” Andy said. Spencer scoffed. 

“Brendon cries when I kill a spider,” he says. “No way he shoves a body in an oven.”

“And thanks for replacing him as the number one suspect,” Andy says. “New rule, you all keep your mouths shut.”

“If we keep our mouths shut, how are we gonna help you?” Brendon asked. 

“I hate every single one of you,” Andy replied. “So. Mister _I like gossip._ Who was the boyfriend?”

“I didn’t know that,” Brendon said. “I did know it was a friend of Patrick’s, and allegedly Bob was dating him to either piss Patrick off or get close to Patrick again.”

“It didn’t work, seeing as how I had no clue,” Patrick said. 

“Could the boyfriend have found out?” Spencer asked. “I mean, if he did, killing Bob like that sure as hell made a statement.”

“Depends on who the boyfriend was,” Andy said, looking meaningfully at Brendon. 

“I’m not a psychic!” Brendon said. 

“No, but apparently you are a gossip whore,” Andy said. “So could you find out?”

_“Whore_ is a derogatory term and I disapprove of it,” Brendon said, even as he pulled out his phone. “I want to state that for the record.”

“You’ll do great in court,” Andy said bracingly, then turned to Patrick. “You didn’t kill Bob, did you?”

“For Christ’s sake, no,” Patrick said. “Why does everyone think I killed him?”

“Motive and opportunity, honey,” Brendon said, still looking at his phone. 

“Don’t call me honey,” Patrick replied. “Also, I’m not stupid enough to kill Bob in my own bakery. It’ll bring down business.”

“And murder is frowned upon,” Spencer said. 

“Yeah, and that,” Patrick said. 

“Don’t sound too broken up,” Andy said. “People might think you wanted to murder Bob. Do _not_ open your mouth, thanks.”

“So, what’s the plan?” Spencer asked. “We wait for Brendon to figure out who Bob was dating, then give that info to the cops?”

“Uh,” Brendon said slowly, looking up with eyes wide. “We don’t have to wait very long.”

“You found out already?” Andy asked, sounding surprised. Brendon nodded, looking down at his phone like he was double checking before blinking and taking a deep breath.

“It was Ryan,” Brendon said. He sounded dazed, like he’d run face first into a pole. For his part, Patrick could relate. Brendon’s words hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he stared at him, not quite comprehending what he was saying. Brendon swallowed and waved his phone like it would clear things up. “Bob was dating _Ryan_. Our Ryan. Ryan Ross.”

“Well,” Andy said, once it became clear that all Patrick and Spencer could do was stare, dumbfounded, at Brendon. “Shit.”

\----

“Ryan!” Patrick shouted, pounding on the door again. Next to him, Andy sighed. 

“I feel the need to remind you, as your lawyer, that this is not a good idea,” he said. 

“Yeah, great, whatever,” Patrick said, then pounded on the door again. “Ryan! It’s me!”

“I think he got that,” Andy said. “What are you hoping to accomplish here exactly?”

“I’d _like_ some answers,” Patrick said, slapping his hand on the door loudly. “Ryan!”

“Do you think he’s gonna come out here and say _‘hey Patrick, nice to see you, I totally forgot to tell you that I’m dating Bob and I cooked him in the oven!’_?” Andy asked, and Patrick shot him a glare.

“Don’t get my hopes up,” he muttered. Andy scoffed. Patrick sighed, letting his hand drop. “Guess he’s not home. You think we should tell the detectives?”

“No, I think we should let them continue to look at you as suspects,” Andy said. 

“Sarcasm,” Patrick said, giving Ryan’s door a little kick. “Not a great look on you.”

“Gets me laid,” Andy said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the detectives. I don’t trust you to stick to the cold, emotionless facts.”

“Which are?”

“Ryan was dating Bob,” Andy said, pressing his phone to his ear. “And that’s it. No. Shut up. Hello, Detective Wentz. Yes, it’s me, your favorite lawyer. I have some valuable information for you.”

Andy paused, holding up a hand like he expected Patrick to interrupt or something, before raising one eyebrow in disbelief. 

“I see,” he said. “Well. we just found that out. Probably because of interpersonal drama. And no, we haven’t heard from him. Of course. Thank you.”

Andy hung up and grabbed Patrick’s arm hard. 

“They have Ryan in custody,” he announced, beginning to drag Patrick down the hall, away from Ryan’s door. “So we need to not be anywhere near here when they inevitably serve the search warrant. Could you possibly move faster?”

“I’m moving, I’m moving,” Patrick said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can the one for the PTA be a cancellation?” Brendon asked. “I swear to God if I have to deal with one more mother complaining that Brayleigh has some random ass made up allergy, I’m going to scream.”
> 
> “Last year it was an allergy to unfiltered water,” Patrick remembered, fighting a grin. “You looked so dead inside by the time she left.”
> 
> “And they never tell you until after the event!” Brendon seethed. “Because they don’t wanna pay!”
> 
> “Yes, we can cancel the PTA one,” Spencer said loudly. 
> 
> “Unfiltered water,” Brendon muttered murderously.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Brendon said, directly into Patrick’s ear, and Patrick briefly thought about burning his apartment down, too, with all of them inside it, just so he could get four hours of uninterrupted sleep. “Before you murder me, you asked me to wake you up this early. This is your fault, this is.”

That was true, Patrick vaguely remembered, but it didn’t stop the urge to strangle the nearest living human being, and Brendon was the poor soul in arm’s reach. Patrick’s fingers twitched. 

“Are you _in my bed_?” Patrick asked hoarsely, face still mostly pressed into his pillow. There was a long, telltale pause during which he felt the mattress move.

“No,” Brendon said evasively, then: “Don’t be homophobic. Anyway. Get up. You wanted to see what orders you could do from home, you overachiever.”

“God forbid I try and make my customers happy,” Patrick said, yawning, pushing himself up. He didn’t need to look at Brendon to know he was rolling his eyes. “I didn’t say you had to join me.”

“It was implied when you asked me to wake you up,” Brendon said dryly.

“Only because I know you’re always up at ass o’clock to work out,” Patrick protested. “And you somehow still have energy for the rest of the day! Has anyone ever told you that you really need to cheer the hell down?”

“Nope,” Brendon said. “Are you getting up or what?”

“Or what,” Patrick said, but stood anyway. 

He wished he could be surprised to see Spencer also awake and in his kitchen when he finally emerged, dressed, but he was not. He attempted to narrow his eyes, but he was pretty sure the result was just something that resembled a drunk pirate who’d lost his eyepatch, so he gave up.

“I didn’t know that giving you guys a place to crash would mean letting you interfere with my life,” Patrick said. 

“Your bakery catching fire kind of ruined us having a place to live,” Spencer pointed out.

“You’re welcome, Patrick,” Brendon said. “No problem, Patrick.”

“Cheer the hell down,” Patrick repeated, and grabbed his iPad from the charging pad, unlocking it and opening up his reservations app. The five million orders stared back at him and he felt frozen in trepidation.

“Five million is a _bit_ of an exaggeration,” Spencer said, pulling the iPad from Patrick’s hands despite his sputtering protests. “You have one hundred and eighty seven orders. Let’s eliminate the ones we obviously can’t do.”

“Can the one for the PTA be a cancellation?” Brendon asked. “I swear to God if I have to deal with one more mother complaining that Brayleigh has some random ass made up allergy, I’m going to scream.”

“Last year it was an allergy to unfiltered water,” Patrick remembered, fighting a grin. “You looked so dead inside by the time she left.”

“And they never tell you until after the event!” Brendon seethed. “Because they don’t wanna pay!”

“Yes, we can cancel the PTA one,” Spencer said loudly. 

“Unfiltered water,” Brendon muttered murderously.

“Anything for a group larger than twelve has to go,” Patrick said, after a glance at his oven. It was a decent oven, but not industrial. Patrick was not a miracle worker. Spencer tapped away on the iPad as Patrick thought. “Also, anything overly detailed or that requires special instructions that we need the bakery workspace for.”

“That leaves us with ninety four,” Spencer said. Patrick sighed. That was still up there. No way was he gonna manage that.

“Any friendly regulars?” he asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Cancel them,” Patrick said. “They’ll understand better than a first time customer or one of our not so friendly regulars. So that’s seventy eight.”

“Seventy seven,” Brendon corrected. “Learn to count.”

“Learn to be a decent human,” Patrick shot back. 

“Enough,” Spencer said, without looking up. “Seventy seven is still too many.”

“We have to cut at least twenty,” Brendon said. “What’s on there, Spence?”

“Cookies, cakes, cupcakes, cheesecake, three kinds of pie, and creme brulee,” Spencer said. “Also brownies, chocolate covered strawberries, and an order of tarts.”

“Fuck the creme brulee,” Brendon said. “And the tart.”

“Chocolate covered strawberries can go,” Patrick said. “The cheesecake is on thin fucking ice. What kinds of pie?”

“The whiskey sweet potato, pumpkin, and tequila apple,” Spencer said. “They’re either alone for Christmas or they wish they were.”

“How many if we cut all of those?” Patrick asked.

“Sixty one,” Spencer said, glancing up. Patrick looked at Brendon, who looked from him to Spencer. “I mean, I’m game.”

“Me, too,” Brendon shrugged.

“I hate you both,” Patrick said.

“This was your idea!” Brendon said, outraged, and Spencer patted him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said, evidently completely unphased by Patrick’s glare, which made Patrick worry that his glare needed work. “He just needs to get laid.”

“I’ve gone to the bad place,” Patrick said, and grabbed his apron out of sheer self preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, some non angst! don’t say i never did anything for you


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon leaned to the side until he fell into Patrick’s lap and squinted up at him. 
> 
> “Hey,” he said, in a tone that told Patrick that this was going to be a conversation he didn’t want to have. He considered moving, but Brendon was a heavy motherfucker when he wanted to be, like right then. “Have you thought about who would kill Bob?”
> 
> “Not at all,” Patrick said. “In fact, I think Bob killed himself. Can we not have this discussion?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your patience! my pup is recovering from surgery. the good news is that it was pretty successful and her survival rate is about her remaining lifespan, so i won't have to make any hard decisions just yet. 
> 
> anyway, sorry this chapter is so short! i promise next one will be longer. <3

Every bit of free space in Patrick’s kitchen was covered in finished baked goods, a few still cooling, most boxed up. His poor dishwasher was on its third load and his sink was still full of more dishes waiting for their turn, but Patrick, Brendon, and Spencer were draped across the living room furniture, remnants of Taco Bell in front of them and the beginnings of a fast food coma in their peripherals. 

“We did it,” Brendon said sleepily, thrusting one fist in the air in triumph and narrowly missing Patrick’s jaw. Patrick grunted. “If this doesn’t give us more fans, I don’t know what will.”

“Perhaps the quality of our baked goods,” Spencer said. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brendon replied. “You know we’re gonna be famous for the whole dead-body-in-an-oven thing, right?”

“I’m going into witness protection,” Patrick said. 

“That doesn’t work the way you think it does,” Spencer said. 

Brendon leaned to the side until he fell into Patrick’s lap and squinted up at him. 

“Hey,” he said, in a tone that told Patrick that this was going to be a conversation he didn’t want to have. He considered moving, but Brendon was a heavy motherfucker when he wanted to be, like right then. “Have you thought about who would kill Bob?”

“Not at all,” Patrick said. “In fact, I think Bob killed himself. Can we not have this discussion?”

“You’re no fun at all,” Brendon said. Patrick swore he somehow got heavier. “But for real. Ryan’s in jail but I doubt that skinny little twink got Bob in an oven by himself, so what are we really looking at?”

“Yeah, _Ryan’s_ the skinny little twink,” Patrick muttered.

“We’re not the cops,” Spencer said, over Brendon’s sputtering. “It’s not our job to speculate.”

“Yeah, but it’s _fun_ ,” Brendon said. “Come on! Humor me.”

“Fine,” Patrick said, dropping his head back and staring at his ceiling. There was a spiderweb in the corner, which reminded him that he should probably dust sometime in the next century. “We’re in agreement that none of us killed Bob, right?”

“Pinky promise,” Brendon said. 

“That still leaves a lot of enemies,” Spencer mused. 

“Yeah, but I think it’s gotta be connected to Patrick somehow,” Brendon argued. “I mean, why else do it in the bakery? Either they wanna frame Patrick or they have ulterior motives.”

“Ulterior motives?” Patrick asked, amused.

“Framing Patrick doesn’t really work if you know him,” Spencer said. “The case falls apart fast. You’re too routine, Patrick, plus your building has cameras and the security system to check your alibi. So why else use the bakery?”

“Just for the ovens?” Patrick guessed. 

“There are easier ways to burn a body,” Spencer said. 

“I don’t want to know,” Patrick replied.

“What if it’s just for convenience?” Brendon asked. “Not just for the ovens, but because whoever did it knows Patrick will be cleared?”

“That means it’s someone we know,” Spencer said. “A thought I don’t want to have.”

“That also means they don’t care if you’re framed,” Patrick frowns.

“It’d be pretty stupid of us to start a fire in a building we live in,” Spencer said. “Even if we’re suspects, I doubt anything would stick.”

“So we’re back where we started,” Brendon said. “I hate police work.”

“I have great news for you,” Patrick said. “You’re a baker, not a cop.”

“Can I at least say that I’m glad Bob is dead?” Brendon said, tone uncharacteristically serious. “‘Cause he was complete shit to you and I’m glad he’s dead.”

“I hope he was alive in the oven,” Spencer said mildly.

“You’re both disturbing as hell,” Patrick said. “But I love you.”

“Damn right,” Brendon said. “Now come on. We better deliver the orders. You should wear your sexy baker outfit.”

“I don’t have a sexy baker outfit,” Patrick said. “And do not offer to buy me one. I will shove it down your throat.”

“You’re so violent,” Brendon said, sitting up. “Spence, we should reconsider. Maybe Patrick did murder Bob.”

“If he did, he has an alibi,” Spencer said. “He was with us all night.”

“Yep,” Brendon said. “Threesome.”

“Remind me to go back in time and not hire you,” Patrick said, and Brendon cackled with glee.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t believe that puny little bastard tried to frame me,” Brendon seethed for about the one hundredth and eighty fifth time. Patrick was considering shoving _him_ into an oven. Possibly alive. Instead, he kneaded the dough for the bread he was stress-baking more aggressively, making eye contact with Brendon’s keeper, who sighed and smacked Brendon upside the head. 
> 
> “Brendon,” Spencer said. “Shut the fuck up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm beginning to slide into thesis panic, so sorry this is late and short, forgive me, i love u all

Patrick was going to have nightmares about the phone ringing in the middle of the night. Granted, it wasn’t the middle of the night right now, it was midday, but he was napping on the couch, enjoying his temporarily employee-free home for fuck’s sake.

He groped for it, eyes squeezed shut, before answering with a hoarse _hello?_

“Hey, Patrick,” Brendon said. 

“Please don’t tell me the rest of the bakery is burned down and another body was found,” Patrick said. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I’m kinda in jail,” Brendon said. It took all of Patrick’s willpower to not hang up right then. Instead, he heaved out a long sigh and pushed himself up. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. Why are you in jail?”

“Ryan swore I helped him plan the whole thing,” Brendon said. “He showed them text messages. I didn’t write them. I need Andy.”

“I’ll call him,” Patrick said. 

“I swear I didn’t kill anyone,” Brendon insisted. 

“I’m calling Andy,” Patrick repeated, and hung up.

Patrick met Andy at the station, but he didn’t really know _why_ , as it wasn’t like the cops were gonna let him go talk to Brendon. Instead, he sat in the empty front area, avoiding the gaze of the cop at the front desk, focusing on his laced fingers and trying not to internally panic about how fucked up his life had become. 

“Patrick.”

Patrick jerked out of the beginnings of his spiral into hysteria and looked up. Detective Wentz was standing at the doors Andy had disappeared through approximately thirteen years ago, hands in his pockets, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up like it was a nice Spring day and not five in the evening on Christmas Eve. Patrick wondered again if he was hallucinating this entire experience. Maybe he really should take that vacation he’d been putting off. 

“Detective,” he said, proud of how he managed to make his voice sound relatively normal and calm. “I swear, Brendon wouldn’t do this.”

Wentz held up a hand. 

“Your lawyer is handling it,” he said. “Let’s chat.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, even though in the back of his mind he was realizing he should probably not wander off with a cop without a lawyer present. He sort of remembered he had a solid alibi, though. Right? He stood anyway, following Wentz through the double doors and into the main station. Offhandedly, Patrick realized he never knew what to actually call this area. The bullpen? The station? 

Whatever the area, he was in it, and he followed Wentz into a quiet room not unlike an office without a desk. When Wentz gestured, Patrick sat in one of the office chairs, folding his arms uncomfortably and refraining from looking around. Wentz sat across from him. Patrick expected him to pull out his notebook or a recording device or something, but instead Wentz just crossed his ankle over his knee and sighed. 

“Well, this is a clusterfuck.”

Patrick choked on a disbelieving and abrupt laugh. Wentz’s lips quirked into a grin for a moment before he sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Patrick tried not to squirm under Wentz’s assessing gaze--really, who gave the detective the right to be that good at picking someone apart without saying a word? Patrick hated cops. 

Except for this one. Wait, what?

“So here’s where I’m at,” Wentz said. “And when I say where I’m at, it automatically includes my partner. We’re pretty sure neither Mr. Urie nor Mr. Ross was involved in the fire.”

“Brendon definitely wasn’t,” Patrick said confidently, then faltered. “But not Ryan?”

Wentz nodded. 

“Not him,” he confirmed. “He just keeps repeating the same facts and can’t elaborate. He’s either covering for someone or being threatened, but either way, it’s not him.”

“So now what?” Patrick asked, feeling a little hopeless. “Back to the beginning?”

“That’s not unusual,” Wentz said. “Murder investigations are a lot of back and forth. The important part is that Mr. Urie will be released.”

“That’s a relief,” Patrick admitted. “Thanks, detective.”

“You can just call me Pete,” Wentz said. “I’m investigating a murder at your bakery, I think that warrants first name basis.”

“Sure,” Patrick said, though the mere idea of being on a first name basis with a hot detective seemed like a very bad idea. “Thanks...Pete.”

Pete grinned and Patrick thought very hard about Bob’s burnt up body and the reason he and Pete met in the first place.

\----

“I can’t believe that puny little bastard tried to frame me,” Brendon seethed for about the one hundredth and eighty fifth time. Patrick was considering shoving _him_ into an oven. Possibly alive. Instead, he kneaded the dough for the bread he was stress-baking more aggressively, making eye contact with Brendon’s keeper, who sighed and smacked Brendon upside the head. 

“Brendon,” Spencer said. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I was in _jail_ ,” Brendon whined. “ _Jail_ , Spencer.”

“For like, an hour,” Spencer said. “Shut up before Patrick burns this apartment down with all of us in it.”

“Patrick is so violent,” Brendon muttered, but thankfully shut up. Patrick gave the dough one last knead before dumping it into the pan and shoving it aside to let it rest. Brendon raised an eyebrow but thankfully, chose not to comment. 

“Well,” Spencer finally said, once Patrick was finished washing his hands and had collapsed on the couch next to him, across from Brendon who was staring at his phone, twisted up into an uncomfortable-looking position in the recliner. “Not to trivialize the actual murder that took place or anything, but do you think the bakery will be a crime scene for long?”

“Google says two days,” Brendon reported, from somewhere near the middle of the pretzel. “Christmas will be two days. Our own little miracle.”

“I don’t know that Google is a reliable source,” Spencer said. “And I wouldn’t count on it.”

“The smell of burnt body lingers, I think,” Patrick said. “Even if the bakery isn’t a crime scene.”

“Febreeze,” Brendon said. Patrick rolled his eyes. “But seriously--if I didn’t do it--”

“If?” Patrick asked, but Brendon ignored him. 

“And you didn’t do it, and Ryan didn’t do it, who would do it?”

“And here we go again,” Patrick said, thunking his head back against the couch. “Can we pretend that this didn’t happen for about ten minutes?” 

“Ten minutes,” Spencer said. “Go.”

“There’s one possibility we didn’t think of,” Brendon said. 

“Ten minutes,” Patrick complained. 

“Insurance money,” Brendon continued. “Maybe it was a two for the price of one crime--kill Bob and burn down the bakery. Only the bakery didn’t burn completely.”

Patrick frowned. 

“But that puts the suspicion right back on us,” he pointed out. “Nobody else would benefit from insurance money.”

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked critically, and Patrick frowned. 

“Oh,” he said, realization hitting him like a thunderbolt. “Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can feel your 'how dare you' glares from here


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The overheated fan whined above him, clunking in its casing, and Patrick tried really, _really_ hard not to scream at the top of his lungs in frustration.
> 
> It was fine. All of this was fine, he just had to keep telling himself that. It wasn’t like it could get worse, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you get when you cross a grad student with a sense of impending doom?
> 
> littlesnowpea

**two years ago**

“I didn’t ask you to understand,” Patrick said testily. Bob continued to stand in his damn way, being a huge jerk and a general annoyance. Flour was thick in the air and the fan was overheated. That was going to have to be factored into the budget, too--none of them could work in the kitchen for twelve hours with no cooling system. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, either. I’m renting them the apartment.”

“It’s not a smart move,” Bob said. “You could get market rate for it and add to our income if--”

“ _My_ income,” Patrick interrupted. “You seem to be forgetting that all of this is _my income_ , Bob. You sort of lost out on earning potential when we broke up.”

“I’m part owner,” Bob said, outraged.

“Which entitles you to a monthly stipend and that’s it,” Patrick snapped back. “Should we call Andy to go over it again?”

“I just don’t understand why you’re making such a dumb money decision,” Bob said, almost pleading, and still most definitely in Patrick’s way. “Renting the upstairs apartment to Brendon and Spencer is like giving the homeless junkie twenty bucks. Sure you did a good thing, but there are better things to do with that twenty dollars.”

“I assume you’d know how far twenty bucks would go these days,” Patrick said.

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you standing here telling me what I should do with my building and my money when you were the one who had the _audacity_ to try and set fire to SemiSweet in order to collect insurance money for heroin,” Patrick snapped. “What’s not fair is me _paying for rehab_ after that stunt and you just walking right out before you were even close to done. You’re lucky you’re still part owner, Bob, because betting on you is like betting on losing dogs.”

“Could you please calm down?” Bob asked and Patrick resisted the urge to fling one of his mixers directly at Bob’s stupid fucking head. 

“I am calm,” he said. “And I’m also busy. Leave. Please. For the love of God.”

Bob glared at Patrick for a long moment before huffing and turning on his heel to storm away, through the double doors that Patrick should replace at some point and into the cafe portion of the bakery. Patrick took a moment to wish he never met Bob, before someone cleared their throat from behind him. 

“Yes,” he said, slipping back into Professional-Baker-Slash-Small-Business-Owner Patrick Mode. “Sorry. Oh, hey, is it already three?”

“Just turned,” Travie said, leaning on the doorframe of the backdoor, his usual delivery crate on the ground in front of him. “Bryar back again?”

“He’s always gonna be the annoying rock in my shoe,” Patrick said bracingly, reaching out for Travie’s clipboard and signing off on his delivery. “Thanks for being on time.”

“Always,” Travie said with a grin, and Patrick grinned back. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew Travie was flirting with him, but Patrick just--he didn’t have enough in him to look for anything yet. 

Didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy being looked at, though.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” Patrick said, deftly propping his walk-in open and unloading the dairy. He let the fridge click shut and Travie’s eyes on him were kind of intense. 

“It’s what I’m good at,” Travie said, smirking. Just outside, someone honked their horn, and Travie gave Patrick an exaggerated pout. “Duty calls. Same time next week?”

“I’ll be here,” Patrick said, cheeks a little pink, and Travie let the back door close behind him, leaving Patrick blessedly alone in the kitchen for the first time in an hour. 

“Already sucking someone’s dick, I see.”

Or so he thought.

“May I remind you that we are broken up,” Patrick snapped, fixing Bob with his most pissed off glare. “May I remind you that we got that way because I found you in bed with three other guys? Wanna keep running your mouth?”

“Watch yourself,” Bob snapped. “Someday, someone’s not gonna like that smart mouth.”

“Is that a threat?” Patrick asked.

“Wait and see,” Bob said, but didn’t stick around, just charged out the back door, too, slamming it behind him.

The overheated fan whined above him, clunking in its casing, and Patrick tried really, _really_ hard not to scream at the top of his lungs in frustration.

It was fine. All of this was fine, he just had to keep telling himself that. It wasn’t like it could get worse, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your sarcasm, as always, is on point,” Patrick said. “So I shouldn’t talk to the police at all?”
> 
> “That’s definitely not what I said,” Andy replied, narrowing his eyes. “Lord have mercy, you have a crush.”
> 
> “I am an adult!” Patrick sputtered. “I do not have a _crush_!”
> 
> “Which one is it?” Andy asked. “Wait no, I can guess. I know your taste in men. Or should I say your _lack of_ taste in men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for skipping last week, you see i was in a Different State with my Wife and i will be Moving There. yes i am leaving the state that wants to eat me. no one is more surprised than me. 
> 
> anyway thanks for hanging in there and the mystery is picking up!

“Would you please just take like two breaths and start over?” Andy asked, cutting into Patrick’s rant of spiraling anxiety, and, as if on cue, Patrick did. He sucked in one breath, then two, and Andy took advantage of the silence to take over the conversation. “So what I got out of all that was that you, Tweedle-Dee, and Tweedle-Dumb were discussing possibilities, which I expressly asked you _not to do_ \--”

“We couldn’t help it!” Patrick objected, but Andy steamrolled on.

“And now you’ve gotten it in your head that _insurance money_ is the motive,” he finished. “Sound about right?”

“Spencer and Brendon aren’t that dumb,” Patrick said.

“Way to miss the point,” Andy said dryly. 

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Patrick said. “It’s happened before.”

“Yeah,” Andy said. “By _Bob_ , who, may I remind you, is dead, courtesy of your ovens.”

“Please don’t remind me,” Patrick muttered.

“Who would even benefit from that?” Andy asked. “Besides you and your not-dumb friends, I mean, and I’m pretty sure we cleared you three.” 

Patrick swallowed hard. 

_Well, you_ was an obvious answer, but he highly doubted Andy would burn down SemiSweet and then go on to continue representing him, but it wasn’t like the only other person he could think of was going to be received any better.

“I never exactly bought Hayley all the way out,” he said slowly. “She earned back the investment but we never severed ties. So, technically, she’d be awarded insurance money.”

Andy was silent for a moment before taking a deep breath through his teeth.

“You’re gonna want to be really careful with that kind of accusation,” he cautioned, and there was a bizarre tone in his voice, one Patrick couldn’t quite place. “Firstly, because you led me to believe she was out of SemiSweet for good, and secondly because she’s in Los Angeles, not Chicago. Oh, and thirdly, if you’re wrong, she could get pissed and come knocking for her share or even more, for slander.”

“I didn’t lie to you,” Patrick protested.

“I didn’t say you _lied_ to me,” Andy said. “I said you _led me to believe_. See how those are different?”

“Sort of,” Patrick said, then sighed. “It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“It’s not exactly your job to think of reasons,” Andy said. “It’s your job to think of the next steps for the likely haunted bakery. May I suggest not asking my ex-girlfriend to front the cost for a new building again?”

“She wasn’t your ex at the time,” Patrick said. “And, ironically, I’m putting in for insurance. You’re right, though. We should move.”

“Yeah, I don’t think staying at Murder Kitchen, Inc. is the best idea,” Andy said. “How much is insurance paying out?”

“I don’t know yet,” Patrick huffed. “You’re the lawyer, shouldn’t you know?”

“Don’t confuse me with an insurance agent,” Andy scoffed. “I don’t wear cheap suits. That’s offensive.”

“Maybe wanting Bob dead was the real motive,” Patrick said. Andy threw a pillow at him. 

_”Stop_ thinking of motives!” he said, exasperated. “You’re giving me hives. Leave the police work to the police, the legal work to me, and the bakery work to you. Does that make sense, or should I break it down into bite size portions?”

“Your sarcasm, as always, is on point,” Patrick said. “So I shouldn’t talk to the police at all?”

“That’s definitely not what I said,” Andy replied, narrowing his eyes. “Lord have mercy, you have a crush.”

“I am an adult!” Patrick sputtered. “I do not have a _crush_!”

“Which one is it?” Andy asked. “Wait no, I can guess. I know your taste in men. Or should I say your _lack of_ taste in men.”

“You’re fired,” Patrick said. “So, so fired.”

“So it is Detective Wentz,” Andy said triumphantly. “Knew it.”

“Go away,” Patrick begged. “Go away and deal with legal shit.”

“Oh, I will,” Andy said, and there was a vague threatening tone in his voice that Patrick did not like. “You just split your time evenly between looking for a new place and making moon eyes at Wentz.”

“I do not make _moon eyes--_ ” Patrick began, but Andy was already out the door, smirk firmly in place, leaving Patrick arguing with the displaced air his lawyer had left behind, feeling very much left out of a joke he didn’t know even existed.

**Author's Note:**

> i can hear y'all already shouting "snow WHY." just wait. juuuuust wait. :)
> 
> i also exist at smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


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